


The 'R' Word

by ereshai



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil comes home to a candlelit dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 'R' Word

**Author's Note:**

> I randomly chose prompts from a list to get inspired, and even though marriage proposal wasn't one of them, I realized that's what I subconsciously wanted to write.

When Phil gets home, the first thing he notices is the dining room table. Actually, the first thing he notices is how dark the apartment is, but the dining room table is a close second. A dozen tea lights in small glass holders are scattered on the surface, their flickering light glinting off the two place settings laid out on either end of the table. Phil didn’t know they had tea lights, or anything to put them in.

“Clint?” he calls.

“In the kitchen.” Clint’s voice is muffled. The lights are off in there, too.

“Did the power go out?” The rest of the building had seemed okay, including the elevator he had taken up to their sixth floor apartment.

Clint walks into the room. There is a salad bowl in his hands. “Nah. I just thought it’d be nice. Although the light just burned out in the kitchen. I’ll replace it later.”

“Did we have a date tonight?” He doesn’t usually forget dates with Clint. Postpone them because of work, yes; forget them, no.

Clint shakes his head as he sets the dish on the table. “I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Is something wrong?” Not that Clint isn’t thoughtful, but actually cooking and setting the table for a meal? Phil is usually fine with tossing a frozen meal in the microwave when he gets home at this hour.

“’Course not.” He walks over to Phil and kisses him hello. “Got another dish to bring out. Back in a sec.”

Aside from the odd decision to cook a late supper, Clint seems fine, so he’s probably not going to deliver bad news. Although it is really dark…

“Did something get broken?”

“What? No!” Clint comes back out with a large pot, which he sets on a trivet in the middle of the table. “Food’s up. You wanna eat?”

Phil shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it on the back of his chair. “It smells delicious.” He knows it’s spaghetti in meat sauce – it’s the only thing Clint makes that isn’t breakfast. He sniffs the air. “Is that garlic toast?”

“Shit!” Clint races back into the kitchen, and comes back with a foil-wrapped oblong. “Yeah, garlic toast. Maybe a little crispier than it’s supposed to be.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Phil dishes up a generous helping of the spaghetti, as well as some of the salad, while Clint opens the foil and fishes out a piece of the toast for him. There’s a bottle of his favorite beer already on the table, still cold from the fridge. It’s all very nice, and he wonders what the hell is going on.

He waits until Clint serves himself before asking him, “What’s going on?”

Clint looks startled. “Nothing. Really.”

“Really? We don’t own a trivet.” Phil starts eating; it’s delicious.

“We do now.”

“Clint-“

“The table, it’s like an antique, or an heirloom, right?” Clint isn’t meeting his gaze, but not in a ‘I’m hiding something from you’ kind of way. This is more ‘I’m embarrassed, and I don’t want to talk about it’.

“What makes you think that?”

“You get pretty freaked out if I spill something on it. I just thought it was.” He shrugs, and continues eating.

“I didn’t ‘freak out’, and I thought you had knocked over a bottle of acetone. That will take the finish right off. I got the table from a thrift store and restored it myself. I put a lot of work into it, and I didn’t want to do it all over again.”

“Well, now we have a trivet to use on it.”

“And the candles?”

Clint doesn’t answer right away; he takes a big bite of his salad and chews it thoroughly, then washes it down with a mouthful of beer. “Um, when I bought the trivet, the lady at the store kinda suggested it. After she found out I was making dinner for you. She said they would be romantic.”

And that explains Clint’s embarrassment; he thinks his romantic side is well hidden. Phil smiles at him. “I like it.”

Clint nods hesitantly, and they tuck into their meal. There’s plenty of spaghetti; Clint always makes too much, but the leftovers are always good. When they’re done, Phil helps clear the table. They’re at the sink, washing dishes by the light spilling through the doorway, when Phil tries again.

“So, why go to all this trouble?”

Clint stares into the soapy water. “I just wanted to change things up a little. No more ‘same old, same old’, you know?”

“Okay.”

“And those frozen things have too much sodium. They’re not good for you.”

Phil sets down the plate he’s drying, puts his hand on Clint’s neck, and tugs him into a kiss. “Marry me,” he says when they part.

“Huh?” Clint blinks at him.

“Clinton Francis Barton, will you marry me?”

Clint pulls his sudsy hands out of the sink, and wraps his arms around him. “All right. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes.”

Phil absolutely does not mind the water soaking through his thin shirt. Just another reason to take it off as soon as possible. When he’s done kissing Clint.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I have written something quickly and posted it before I started second-guessing myself. Please point out any errors.


End file.
